


Step into Christmas with me

by ineffable-snowman (schneemann)



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Alternate Universe - Human, Background Relationship: Crowley/Lucifer, Christmas, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-22
Updated: 2021-01-02
Packaged: 2021-03-10 23:27:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 8,266
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28245411
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/schneemann/pseuds/ineffable-snowman
Summary: Crowley, the rich guy from the big city, comes to a small northern town and ends up staying at Aziraphale's place.Expect all the tropes from every trashy Christmas romance movie!
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 5
Kudos: 18





	1. December 19th

**Author's Note:**

> This story will have eight (maybe nine) chapters, four of which I've written so far. I hope I will be able to update regularly during the next days as I wouldn't want to finish a Christmas story some time in spring.
> 
> No archive warnings apply but Shadwell is in this and he is a warning in himself, so be prepared for his usual tasteless comments. 
> 
> Many thanks to the lovely people at the GO-Events discord server who helped me with beta-reading and brainstorming!

“Shit, shit, shit, shit, _shit_!”

Crowley threw his phone onto the passenger seat. Dead battery. And he was in the middle of nowhere and it was close to midnight. He cursed Lucifer and that stupid job and the stupid snow (and ice storms, road works, poorly signposted roads, and zero internet reception). He was completely lost without his phone. What was he supposed to do? Just keep driving, without a clue where Ashville was? Everything just looked the same: heaps and heaps of snow. Why would anyone want to build a factory here of all places? (Probably low property taxes.)

Crowley got out of the car and kicked the bloody snow at the side of the road only to hurt his foot because it was more ice than snow. He cursed some more. His words formed wisps of tiny clouds in the dark and the cold. A gigantic factory would definitely be an improvement for this area. It would mean a bit of variety in this desolate place. Maybe even a signpost here and there. Or internet reception!

Finally, the glint of headlights in the distance. Crowley waved wildly to make the car stop.

The driver rolled down the window. “Do you need help?”

“Yes. I seem to have gotten slightly lost. Can you point me towards Ashville?”

“Ashville? Never heard of that.”

Neither had Crowley before Lucifer had sent him there. “Do you maybe have a phone I could use?”

“No internet reception here.”

“What about phone calls?” Not that it would be much help. Crowley did not even know Lucifer’s number by heart. But maybe he could call directory assistance to ask for the number of that Bed and Breakfast, what was it called again? Something with ‘Book’. _Shit_. Of course, he had all the necessary information on his phone and only his phone.

“Afraid not.” The driver got out of his car and opened the trunk to pull out an old roadmap.

“Mm, didn’t know these still existed,” Crowley said but was all the more grateful for such old-fashioned things in this situation. Back in Chicago, the first thing he was going to buy himself was a new phone, at least two power banks, and a roadmap.

Crowley and his rescuer – with a bulky flashlight – poured over the old roadmap until they finally located the small town called Ashville. Without ever having been there, Crowley already hated it. He tried to memorise the map (taking a picture with his phone would have been so helpful…) and thanked the man for his assistance.

After half an hour of driving through more snow and trees, Crowley finally arrived at Ashville. Now he just needed to find his B&B. Well, he would simply do it the old-fashioned way: go to the tourist information or, in the worst case, book another place to stay for the night.

There was no tourist information.

There was nothing that looked like a hotel.

The streetlights had already been turned off as well as all the lights in all the houses. It was not _that_ late, just half past midnight. Did people even live here? It felt like a ghost town.

Crowley drove down road after empty road until he finally passed a house with the lights still on. He brought the Bentley to a halt and promptly slipped on the icy sidewalk when he got out of the car. “Damn it!” Clinging to the wing mirror, he picked himself up and shuffled to the front door. He was tired and cold and hungry, his bottom hurt from the fall and he badly needed to go to the loo. The lights in this house were his only hope.

A friendly-looking man in reading glasses and a beige cardigan opened the door.

Crowley quickly started talking before the man could shut the door right in his face, “Sorry to disturb you so late at night but your house was the only place with the lights still on, so I thought I’d try my luck. Anyway, I’m looking for a B&B in Ashville – I am in Ashville, right? – called something like Books and Bed and Breakfast. It’s meant to be here somewhere.”

“Did you mean The Book Nook?”

“ _Yes!_ ” Crowley almost shouted in relief. Finally, something that went right today.

“You’ve come to the right place. This _is_ The Book Nook. Are you Anthony Crowley then?”

“Oh, thank God! Yes, I’m Crowley.” Crowley smiled apologetically at the man. He must have kept him up for longer than usual because, apparently, in Ashville, everyone went to sleep before midnight. “Sorry for being so late but there was an ice storm around Little Falls and the road was closed in Randall and then I had to go back to Little Falls and crawl along those bloody slippery roads again and try to find another way and I got lost about five times because I didn’t get reception for my phone and then the battery was dead. Anyway, sorry. Didn’t mean to keep you up.”

“It’s fine, no need to worry. The most important thing is that you arrived here safely. I am Aziraphale, by the way. Welcome to The Book Nook.” The man opened the door wider. Inside looked warm and cosy. “Please, come in. Can I help you with your luggage?”

“No need, don’t have much with me.” Crowley quickly got his suitcase from the Bentley and followed Aziraphale inside. He found himself inside a crammed little bookshop. Not what he had expected.

His confusion must have shown on his face because Aziraphale said, “Don’t worry, you won’t have to sleep between the books. Your room is upstairs and you have a perfectly nice and comfy bed.”

“Great.” Crowley followed him up a winding staircase, which was decorated with a festive garland. Aziraphale led him to one of the rooms and fiddled with the large key (Crowley could not remember when he had last stayed at a place that still used such keys. Key cards were the standard). Finally, he managed to open the door with a resolute yank. 

“There it is. I hope everything is to your liking.”

Crowley could only stare. It looked like a Christmas explosion had happened here. There were Christmas lights on strings wound around the wardrobe and the mirror. Every available surface was covered with Christmassy knick-knacks: Santa figurines, Christmas baubles, candles in the shape of snowmen, even a nutcracker (What on earth was he supposed to do with a nutcracker???). The windows were decorated with glittery stars and the letters forming ‘Merry Christmas’, missing the dot on the i.

Aziraphale looked expectantly at Crowley. Oh, yes, he had asked if Crowley liked the room.

“Yeah, great, thanks,” Crowley answered, staring in horror at the flowery bedspread and the assortment of plush cushions in various sizes, some of them with ruffles and lace. How old was that guy? Or did he rent his Grandma’s old rooms?

“So, what brings you here to Ashville? Visiting relatives?”

Crowley supposed that must be the only reason why anyone came here. Who would voluntarily go to this place? “Nah, I’m just a tourist on vacation.” He was not in the mood for small talk (and he _really_ needed to go to the loo!) but it would not do to be rude to Aziraphale after Crowley had made him wait for so long for him to arrive, so he tried his best to be friendly.

“Vacation, how lovely,” Aziraphale commented.

Was that too obvious a lie? “Thought I’d do some hiking in the woods,” Crowley elaborated. “Just…find some peace and quiet, you know? Work’s been busy lately.” At least that part wasn’t a lie. He probably could convincingly play the exhausted businessman from the city who needed some time away from the hustle and bustle to find his inner self or some such bullshit.

“Ah, I see. You would need snowshoes if you want to go hiking in the woods, though. The snow is very deep if you leave the road, you won’t get very far without snowshoes. I think I heard Sara say that they had sold out the last ones but I could ask Arthur if he could lend you his, he is about-”

“No, no, it’s fine, I brought my own.” Crowley did not own snowshoes, of course, but as he would never willingly go hiking in the snow, that was no problem.

Aziraphale dubiously eyed Crowley’s little suitcase.

“I left them in the car,” Crowley explained. “I hardly need them here, right?”

“Ah, no.” Aziraphale chuckled. “Anyway, I’ll leave you alone now so you can make yourself at home. Would you like a cup of tea? Or something to eat? I suppose you haven’t had dinner yet if the journey took you so long?”

Just on cue, Crowley’s stomach rumbled. “Starving.” The only roadside restaurant he had seen during his trip here had already been closed – at 9 pm! Ridiculous, really. “Any recommendations for a good restaurant?” 

“I’m afraid the diner is already closed.”

Of course it was. But another thing worried Crowley much more: “ _Diner_? As in singular?”

“Well, Ashville isn’t that big. There _is_ a pub in Elm Street but they only serve light lunches. And there used to be a lovely restaurant next to the town hall but the owner – sorry, you’re probably not interested in all of this. I have some leek and potato soup left that I could reheat or if you’d prefer sandwiches, I could prepare some quickly-”

“No, soup is fine.” _Jesus Christ_ , Crowley just wanted to go to the loo and he needed to recharge the phone’s battery so he could shout at Lucifer for sending him to this ridiculous place – he did _not_ need leek and potato soup. But asking the guy to prepare him sandwiches in the middle of the night seemed somewhat ungrateful. “Soup is great.”

“Lovely. The kitchen is just over there.” The guy pointed to the end of the hall. “Come whenever you’re ready.” He handed Crowley the rusty key. It had a little wooden guardian angel as a key chain. Then he finally left Crowley alone.

Crowley rushed to the tiny bathroom and groaned when he saw the crimson red and very plushy cover on the toilet lid. He was going to kill Lucifer!

After he had finally relieved himself, he unplugged the Christmas lights (because apparently there was only one socket in the whole room) so he could recharge the phone’s battery. Then he went into the kitchen, which was as crammed and full of Christmas decoration as his own room.

Aziraphale put a bowl of steaming soup in front of him. Leek and potato soup was not exactly Crowley’s thing but he was hungry and cold, so it would do.

“When would you like to have breakfast tomorrow?” asked Aziraphale while rummaging through the kitchen drawers. “I’m afraid I can’t offer you a late breakfast because I have to open the shop tomorrow at half-past nine. You see, the last Saturday before Christmas is always the busiest day of the year. Many people turn to books as a last-minute Christmas present. But if you wanted to sleep longer, I could prepare something for you. Pancakes are easy to reheat, for example, and-”

“Don’t bother, I just have coffee for breakfast anyway.”

“But if you plan to go hiking, you need to have a proper breakfast! Seriously, the cold will wear you out in no time at all!”

It took Crowley a bit of time to calm Aziraphale down but he eventually convinced him that he would not go for a long hike tomorrow but would just walk around the town for a bit. Then finally Crowley could go into his room. He removed the horrible bedspread (and two woollen blankets underneath it) as well as five cushions. Five! Who on earth needed that many cushions? Most of them not even big enough to rest your head on.

Unfortunately, his charging cable wasn’t long enough – or rather: there was no socket close enough to the bed. So Crowley sat down on the floor next to the socket and texted Lucifer: _Just arrived in Ashville. Are you fucking kidding me????_ Well, he _meant_ to text him but the message could not be sent because he had no reception. Damn it, this was a town, people lived here! How could there be no reception?

Groaning, Crowley stood up again and left his room. The lights in the kitchen were still on and he could hear plates clatter and water running. No dishwasher, naturally.

“Sorry, could you give me the wifi password?” Crowley asked. “I mean, _if_ there is wifi…”

“Yes, of course there is. But it can be a bit finicky, especially if there are snowstorms. Which is practically all the time in winter. You usually have the best reception at the top of the staircase. The password is,” Aziraphale waggled his eyebrows, “ _Pri-fiAndPrejudice_.” He looked immensely proud of that horrible pun. Crowley could not entirely suppress a snort of laughter. What a nerd.

“If there’s anything else you need, my room is the one next to yours. Don’t hesitate to knock.”

“Isn’t that annoying, always having strangers in your house?”

“Not at all. The house would be too big for just me. And anyway, I don’t have many guests and most of them are just lovely people, so I don’t really mind it.”

Crowley shrugged. He could not imagine living like that. But he also couldn’t imagine sleeping between dozens of tiny fluffy cushions and doing your dishes by hand. Suddenly his conscience got the better of him. It was way past midnight, this guy had offered him soup in his own kitchen – which was not usually included in a B&B – and was now doing the dishes. “Can I help you? I could dry the plates.”

“Absolutely not! You’re my guest and you deserve your vacation. Besides, I’m almost finished here.”

“Ah, well. I’ll leave you a five-star google review then.”

“Oh, really?”

Aziraphale smiled at him and – Crowley was momentarily taken aback. There was no reason to smile _like that_ just because of the promise of a simple google review. Aziraphale’s smile was just like his Christmas decorations: blinding and completely over the top.

“Yeah, no problem,” Crowley said. “Well. Night then.”

Back in his room, Crowley typed in the password and waited for his phone to connect to the ridiculously slow wifi. Finally, it sent the text messages to Lucifer. While waiting for an answer, Crowley checked The Book Nook’s reviews on google. There were only two: one anonymous who had given it two stars and one who had given it three stars and an added comment “breakfast was good.” Crowley frowned. So did that mean the rest of the place was not good, just the breakfast? It felt oddly unfair. Obviously, this place did not meet Crowley’s taste but he could tell that the owner went out of his way to accommodate him. Crowley frowned again. What on earth was he doing here, pondering over google reviews while sitting on the floor because there was no socket next to the bed? It was cold and uncomfortable in spite of the room’s fluffy carpet. This was really absurd. On the spur of the moment, he decided to rearrange the furniture a bit. He pushed the bed closer to the wall with the socket – and almost tripped over the numerous boxes under the bed. Probably where the Easter decorations were stored…

There was a soft knock on the door. “Er, just wondering, is everything alright?”

“Yeah, just perfect,” Crowley grunted and then sneezed heartily because his activity had raised quite a bit of dust from under the bed. (He would have to rethink that five-star review.) He pushed the bed further towards the wall until he could sit comfortably on the bed with his charger cable still plugged in. Only to get a notification that his phone was not connected to the internet. Well, he was tired anyway. He removed a Santa figurine and _eight_ wooden reindeers from the bedside table so he could place his glasses and a cup of water there. Then he sank back into the bed. It squeaked loudly.

“ _Fuck_.”


	2. December 20th

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: There's some homophobia in the form of Shadwell in this chapter.
> 
> Many thanks to handlebarstiedtothestars who helped with beta-reading again.

The door was pushed open and the bell chimed wildly. Pepper and Adam brought with them a wave of cold air when they hustled into the bookshop.

“Hello, Mr. Fell,” Pepper addressed him even though he was just about to wrap a book for another customer. “We are students from Lincoln School and we have a Christmas auction tonight at our school. All profits go to the children’s ward of St. Beryl’s.”

“Yes, I know about the auction,” Aziraphale said. “Your friends,” he indicated the two boys waiting outside with a handcart filled with several bags, “came here last week to ask for donations. Red or green wrapping paper?” he asked his customer.

“Red, please.”

Aziraphale added one of the bookmarks with inspirational literary quotes before he started to fold the paper around the book.

“And?” Pepper glared at him over the top of the counter. “Did you donate something?”

Aziraphale was momentarily taken aback by this interrogation. “Yes, I did, certainly. I donated three books. I am sure your friends can confirm if you were to ask them.”

Pepper gave the bookshop a cursory look around. “Well, you have more than three books.”

The customer cleared his throat.

“Sorry, yes, getting to you. Let me just…” Aziraphale put a golden gift ribbon on the present and handed it over. “There you go. That’ll be twelve dollars.”

The bell chimed again. It really was a busy day. It was good for business, of course, to sell so many books but Aziraphale normally preferred the quieter days when he could take his time to chat with every customer about books for as long as he wanted.

But it wasn’t another customer, just Mr. Crowley returning. Oh dear, Aziraphale had not even found the time to clean up his room yet! During his short lunchbreak, he had hurried to the general store to stock up on his supply of golden gift ribbons. (An oversight on his part naturally, to be short on golden gift ribbons during Christmas season!) Not only had Aziraphale run into Mr. Crowley in the morning during his frantic search for more golden gift ribbon, no, he had not cleaned his room either. And not even prepared his guest a proper breakfast! He felt like such a horrible host. Yes, Mr. Crowley had said he did not wish to have breakfast. Aziraphale had been secretly grateful because it had saved him at least half of an hour in the morning. Nevertheless, letting a guest leave the house without a proper breakfast went against everything Aziraphale believed a B&B should be.

Fortunately, Mr. Crowley did not go up to his room just yet. He waved hello at Aziraphale and went to browse through the classics section.

“Mr. Fell, all the money of the auction goes to help the ill children,” Adam said.

“Yes, a very good cause,” Aziraphale agreed.

The customer cleared his throat again. He was impatiently waving a 20 dollar note at Aziraphale.

“Look, you two, why don’t you take a cookie,” Aziraphale indicated the plates of cookies in the reading corner, “and I’ll get to you in a minute.” He gave the customer his change, a discount voucher for his next purchase, a flyer for a reading in March and a Christmas card. “Sorry for that. I hope your wife enjoys her Christmas present. Let me know how she liked it.” Then he turned his attention back to Adam and Pepper, who were munching on cookies. “Are you short on donations?”

“Ah, not exactly. But we try to make as much money as possible, of course,” said Adam. “It’s to give those poor children a happy Christmas. Just imagine, being in hospital at Christmas!”

“And some of them have been in hospital for  _ months _ ,” Pepper added.

“And for some it might be the last Christmas  _ ever _ . Shouldn’t we try  _ everything _ in our power to make it at least a wonderful last Christmas for them?”

The two of them kept staring at Aziraphale with a mixture of sadness and reproach. Aziraphale did not stand a chance.

“How about that: each of you can choose one more book for the auction.”

“Great!” Adam grinned. “Thanks, Mr. Fell, you’re the best!”

“The children at St. Beryl will be very grateful,” Pepper said gravely.

Adam chose a children’s adventure book about time travellers. Aziraphale supposed that he hoped his parents would buy that book for him at the auction. Meanwhile, Pepper chose a limited edition of Oscar Wilde’s poems, probably more inspired by the prize than by its contents. Again, they thanked him exuberantly.

“They’re  _ vicious _ ,” Mr. Crowley commented once the children had left the shop.

“They absolutely are. But they mean well.” Aziraphale sighed softly when the CD started its seventh rendition of ‘ _ It’s beginning to look a lot like Christmas _ ’. Time to close the shop.

“Did you have a good day?” he asked Mr. Crowley.

“Yeah, it was nice, nice town. How’s the ribbon situation?”

“Oh, I bought new ones during lunchbreak. But, I’m so sorry to say, I haven’t had time to clean your room yet. Maybe you could sit down in the kitchen with a nice cup of tea while I clean it? Again, I am really sorry about that but, you see, it’s really important that my shop is opened today, not just because I need the money from the sales but because the people here rely on my shop to be open today, you wouldn’t know how many people resort to books as a last-minute gift-”

“Nah, it’s fine, just leave it be. Didn’t mess up my room anyway.”

Aziraphale exhaled in relief. “Oh, thank you so much for your understanding. I definitely owe you for this.” He took off his reading glasses and rubbed his temples. What a day!

“Don’t mention it. So. What’s up tonight in Ashville? How’s the nightlife?”

“Well, there  _ is _ the annual Christmas auction at the public school tonight as you’ve just heard.” Probably not what Mr. Crowley had had in mind when asking about nightlife. “It really is quite a lovely tradition that’s been around for as long as I can remember.”

“Sounds exciting.”

“It sure is.  _ Everyone _ will be there. The students put on little performances, the parents sell cake and mulled cider, there will be booths with handcraft and of course there’s the auction where all the local shops donate things to be auctioned off. All the profit goes to the children’s ward in the hospital in the next town. It really is not Christmas without the auction.”

“You said there’s going to be cider?”

“Oh yes, Tracy’s mulled cider is legendary and well worth going for.”

“Guess I’ll be there then.”

Aziraphale gave him directions to the school and then went upstairs to get himself ready. He was exhausted from this hectic day and the whole week but he was positive Tracy’s mulled cider would lift his spirits.

When he arrived at the school, the theatre club was performing their play. As always, the microphones creaked and cracked and younger siblings in the audience shouted or ran around but that was part of the charm. Aziraphale could not really follow the plot of the play as he had missed most of it but he clapped politely along with everyone else during the somewhat uncoordinated curtain call. During the hustle on stage while the concert band came up, Aziraphale went to Tracy’s booth to get some of her famous mulled cider. Mr. Crowley was there, chatting with Tracy.

“Ah, hello Aziraphale,” Tracy welcomed him. “Crowley here says you’ve had a busy day? Can I get you a drink?”

“Oh, yes please. I’ve been looking forward to your mulled cider all day.”

“With a shot of rum?”

“Certainly.”

Tracy added a generous amount of rum and handed Aziraphale his glass. “Here, this will help you relax.”

“It smells wonderful.” He turned to Mr. Crowley. “Are you enjoying yourself?”

“Couldn’t ask for a better venue than a draughty gym.” He shrugged. “But the cider’s great.” Just then the band started playing with a shrill squeak from the clarinets. Mr. Crowley pulled a face. “I think I need more of it to drown out this noise.”

“Now, there’s no need to be snobbish,” Tracy said gently when she refilled Mr. Crowley’s glass and added rather a lot of rum. “These kids have only played their instruments for about two years. They aren’t professionals.”

“They’re doing their best,” Aziraphale agreed, although he had to admit that the intonation was far from clean and the rhythm a little wobbly at best.

Mr. Crowley had the decency to look sheepish. “Yeah, sure. Great kids. Cheers!” He toasted in the general direction of the stage and then took a large gulp of his cider.

Aziraphale excused himself to go looking at the booths with the handmade items. He ended up buying several Christmas ornaments, three candle holders, a calendar for the next year, a bag of roasted almonds, a stocking with a snowman sewn onto it, several window hangings and eight Christmas cards. And then he needed to buy two gift bags to carry all the goods. There really was not much room in his house left for the decorations but he simply could not resist the kids’ excited faces when they showed him their handiwork, and they were always so proud to sell something and it was for a good cause, after all.

Then there was the highlight of the day: the auction. The books Aziraphale had donated sold at a reasonable price. For some reason, Aziraphale himself ended up with a big angel statue cut from wood. Newton Pulsifer, Mr. Shadwell’s apprentice, promised to deliver it to him tomorrow as Aziraphale had not come by car and could hardly carry the statue all the way back.

By then, the younger students had left, Tracy had brought out the cheap rum and the conversation and laughter had become louder and louder. Some people were even dancing.

“Who’s  _ that _ ?” Mr. Shadwell indicated Mr. Crowley, who was dancing wildly with Pepper’s mother.

“Oh, he’s a guest in my B&B. I suggested he come to the Christmas auction. Looks like he’s enjoying himself.”

“Not from here, is he?”

Mr. Crowley in fact stood out among the crowd with his black and fashionable clothes, the sunglasses and the tattoo on his face. He stood out even more than Pepper’s mother or Anathema (or maybe people had just grown used to their kind of oddity by now).

“I believe he is from Chicago,” Aziraphale said. “He’s on vacation.”

Mr. Shadwell squinted suspiciously. “Looks like Mafia.”

That, in fact, had been Aziraphale’s first impression upon seeing Mr. Crowley. But he would be unusually polite mafia and besides, why would anyone from the mafia come to Ashville and to Aziraphale’s B&B of all places?

“He seems a perfectly nice fellow,” Aziraphale said. “As the saying goes, looks can be deceiving.”

“Hm. Better keep an eye on him.”

“I sure will – as he’s staying at my place. No need to worry, Mr. Shadwell.”

But then Mr. Crowley did something that made him stand out even more. He danced with another man. Aziraphale’s heart sped up and he hastily occupied himself with his mulled cider, not daring to look at Mr. Shadwell.

Soon enough, Mr. Shadwell had something to say on the matter. “So he’s one of those, eh? One of those queers from the city.”

“Well, I – I… I suppose it’s different in the city,” Aziraphale said helplessly, his heart still racing. “Another way of life.”  


Mr. Shadwell huffed. “They better stay there and do their perversities among themselves and not spread their frivolous ways here.”

“Now, Mr. Shadwell,” Tracy interfered, “why don’t you come for another glass of mulled cider, hm?” She linked arms with him and steered him away. “Let the young people have their fun, they’re not hurting anyone.”

“You better watch out, Aziraphale,” Mr. Shadwell called back over his shoulder. “He might try to corrupt you because you haven’t found a nice wife yet! Mark my words!”

“Yes, yes, I’m sure Aziraphale can look after himself.” Tracy rolled her eyes and ushered him away.

Aziraphale stood still frozen to the spot, clinging to his glass of cider. He tried not to stare too openly at Mr. Crowley and the other man (one of the waiters from Sara’s Diner). It was not like they were slow dancing, it was not even a ballroom dance. Just  _ Rocking around the Christmas tree _ . But sometimes they would grab each other’s hands and once Mr. Crowley twirled the other man around like you would only do with a woman. Aziraphale really should not look at them. Was anyone looking at Aziraphale, noticing his reaction? He shrunk back into a corner.

Mr. Crowley and his dance partner seemed to be enjoying themselves greatly, not giving a care in the world for what the other people were thinking. Aziraphale admired Mr. Crowley for that bravery but at the same time he was jealous and even angry at him. Angry that he drew attention to this. What if from now on other people paid more attention to something which usually did not exist as a possibility in their imagination? What if they started to question Aziraphale recommending Oscar Wilde? What if –

“…dancing?”

Aziraphale startled when Mr. Crowley suddenly addressed him over the noise of the music. His cheeks were flushed from dancing and there was even a sheen of sweat on his forehead. He looked happier now than last night or this morning. In fact, now that Aziraphale knew that Mr. Crowley was probably interested in men, he could not help but consider him more closely. And he came to the conclusion that Mr. Crowley was quite good-looking. Which was a superfluous and, frankly, ridiculous thing to notice because there was no way for Aziraphale to date someone from Chicago and there was certainly an even lower probability that someone like Crowley would ever consider dating someone like Aziraphale.

“Er, sorry?” Aziraphale said.

“I said, are you not dancing?”

“I don’t dance.”

“That’s a radical approach. Why?”

“It… It’s just not for me. Never has been. I really can’t dance. I never even went to dancing class.” Aziraphale chuckled self-deprecatingly. The truth was that there had been no one who had asked him to go. And he, of course, had not asked the boy from his history class. He would not have minded to go with a girl but, well. He had not even had the courage to ask his neighbour, a perfectly nice girl and his closest friend since nursery school. And you did not go to dancing class alone. So he had told everyone who had asked about it (not that many, to be honest) that he had other hobbies and was not interested in dancing.

“You don’t need dancing classes to dance,” said Mr. Crowley now. “I mean.” He waved in the general direction of all the dancing people. “I’d say about ten percent of them look like they know what they’re doing. Or…rather five percent, at most.”

Aziraphale chortled. That would be his guess, too, looking at the uncoordinated and graceless flailing going on there.

“I mean,” continued Mr. Crowley, “what’s even the point of going to a – a – a party like this if you don’t dance?”

“Well, there is the mulled cider.”

“Right. Speaking of which, I’ll get myself another one. You want one, too? I guess I owe you one for… the leech and potato soup last night.”

“I certainly wouldn’t mind another cider. And – it’s  _ leek _ , not leech,” Aziraphale added but Mr. Crowley had already left for the cider. What was going on here? Mr. Crowley was inviting him for a drink and maybe even inviting him to dance? It was both exciting and frightening and it did not make any sense because why would someone like Mr. Crowley be interested in flirting (?) with someone like Aziraphale? Or was Aziraphale just imagining things? Did city people just act like that? Or – and this was the most frightening part – had Mr. Crowley noticed that Aziraphale was gay and therefore the only available option?

“Here you go.” Mr. Crowley handed him another glass of cider and then kept pestering him about dancing. “It’s about having  _ fun _ !”

“Says you.”

“Yes! But how can  _ you _ say dancing’s not fun if you’ve never tried it? Come on, just give it a try.”

“I’m not nearly drunk enough for any such thing.”

“Well, that can be arranged.”

And that’s what they did. They had two or three or maybe even four more glasses of cider with rum. Aziraphale could not really remember how it happened – how Mr. Crowley had finally convinced him – but at one point of the night he found himself on the dance floor, shimmying along to a truly tasteless mix of classic rock, party songs, country music and Christmas pop songs.

“What will people think?” Aziraphale moaned when Mr. Crowley tried to make him to do the YMCA.

“Relax, no one’s watching. They’re all too busy coordinating the-” Crowley made wild hand gestures. “-four letters.”

“They  _ are _ watching.”

“Yeah, maybe a few. But not you, they’re watching me, wanna bet? Judging my glasses or something.”

“I have been meaning to ask you: why are you wearing sunglasses? It’s not hot. I mean, light. Er, bright. No bright light here. No sun.”

“They’re stylish.”

“Hm.”

“You don’t like them?”

“I didn’t say that.” Aziraphale considered Mr. Crowley. The sunglasses went along fine with his fashionably styled dark red hair, which was not so perfectly styled right now but looked somewhat ruffled but he still made a rather dashing picture.

“Oi, it’s the chorus!” Mr. Crowley grabbed Aziraphale’s arm and made him lift up his hands. Aziraphale giggled when he mixed up the movements for the letters again. He really was not good at this but neither were the other dancers. And it was kind of fun to do the chaotic movements with everyone together. It was also fun when everyone badly sang along to  _ Country Roads _ . And it was especially fun when Mr. Crowley spun him around and Aziraphale was so, so dizzy from the spinning (and yes, maybe from the cider, too) and he could not stop giggling whenever he lost his footing or collided with someone. Unfortunately, during the third rendition of  _ Last Christmas _ , to which Aziraphale had developed a little choreography that he was trying to teach to Mr. Crowley and Newton Pulsifer, the school’s principal decided to end the party.

“Already?” Aziraphale asked. Just when he had discovered the joy of dancing!

“Well, it’s midnight and the caretakers want to call it a day, understandably.”

“Oh, I see. Tell them – tell them the party was wonderful.  _ Wonderful _ , yes? The music was just lovely and the cider – very good. And I’m so glad my books sold well at the auction and it was  _ simply wonderful _ .” He meant every word. He had not had this much fun in years, maybe in forever.


	3. December 21st

They stumbled back through the dark streets. Tonight Ashville was not as deserted as during the night Crowley had arrived. The streetlamps had been turned off again but the lights in some houses were still on and occasionally a car would pass by and honk at them to get out of the way. The sidewalk was icy and Crowley slipped several times. Fortunately, Aziraphale steadied him every time and then would laugh at him because apparently Crowley’s shoes were wrong.

“My shoes are not wrong, they’re Lowbow – Loubom – anyway, they were very expensive!”

How Aziraphale managed to remain steady on his feet was a mystery to Crowley. Not only was the ground ridiculously slippery, Aziraphale was also ridiculously drunk, which was proven by the fact that he kept humming  _ Last Christmas _ and doing these dorky moves. Crowley could not stop giggling when Aziraphale formed a wobbly heart with his hands and sang a very out of tune “gave you my heaaaart but –  _ oh no _ !”

“What’s wrong?”

“I forgot my things, all the things I bought, the roasted almonds and the Christmas cards and – I need to go back!”

So they did and somehow Crowley found himself with a huge wooden angel in his arms. Again he was laughing uncontrollably. “What is this monstrosity?”

“S’an angel!”

“Yeah, but where are you going to put it?”

“It’s nice!”

It was a miracle that both Crowley and the wooden angel survived the walk back without any injury. He almost tore the garland from the staircase railing down because the angel’s wings got entangled in it but aside from that they arrived safely.

“You look like you’re freezing,” Aziraphale said. “Your nose is…” He waved vaguely around and Christmas ornaments tumbled out of one of the gift bags.

“Yeah?” Crowley didn’t feel cold. He bent down to pick up the Christmas ornaments. Okay, so his fingers refused to cooperate but he blamed that on the bulky wooden angel and maybe on the cider. 

“Oh, thank you.” Aziraphale smiled one of his radiant smiles when Crowley finally handed him the ornaments. “I could make you some hot cocoa. With a bit of rum. It’ll warm you up in a jiffy.” His cheeks were flushed – probably a mix of the alcohol, the dancing and the cold – and he still looked so giddy… how could Crowley say no?

They ended up on Aziraphale’s sofa, the wooden angel between them. Crowley had insisted on naming him George Michael, thus throwing Aziraphale into another fit of giggles. Crowley found he really liked making Aziraphale laugh.

By now, Crowley was definitely warm, in fact, he was sweating. The hot cocoa with more than a bit of rum was doing its job. Also, the room was stifling hot. He wriggled out of his blazer.

Aziraphale gave him a confused side glance. “What are you doing?”

“Don’t worry, not stripping, just hot, ‘s all..” Was that what Aziraphale was thinking? Well, it made sense in a way. They had danced, had had a good time and now they were both drunk and gay and sitting (almost – if not for the absurd wooden angel) side by side on a comfy sofa. Crowley certainly would have considered the possibility…if he had not been engaged. But that did not stop him from being curious. “Ever had sex with a man?”

Aziraphale froze like a deer caught in headlights. “I – what?”

Oh shit, he had scared him. Crowley reached around George Michael and patted Aziraphale’s arm. “No, no, ’s fine, don’t worry, ‘m gay, too, won’t tell anyone, promise. Sorry.”

“What d’you mean,  _ too _ ? I’m – I’m not-”

Aziraphale looked so worried and Crowley really did not like that. He wanted him to laugh again! He would have liked to seduce Aziraphale a little, maybe to a kiss, maybe more, just like he had seduced him into dancing – to show him that it could be fun and that he was allowed to enjoy himself. Crowley would have liked to do all that. But he was engaged, so no.

“No no no, don’t be scared, I don’t mind. George Michael doesn’t mind either.”

Aziraphale smiled tremulously. “Why – how – is it so obvious?”

“Eh, kind of, yeah. I mean, if you know what you’re looking for. Which I know.  _ Obviously _ .” Single man in his late forties, living all alone, no sign of a possibly divorced wife, no pictures of children, a book selection centred around Oscar Wilde, Walt Whitman and several other obvious authors, his fashion choices, the perfectly manicured hands… and most of all, the fear of expressing himself. But Crowley was too drunk to articulate all of that. Also, he feared it would only frighten Aziraphale more and make him close up and maybe hide even more parts of himself.

“Oh no,” Aziraphale said suddenly. “Do you think – do you think they  _ all _ know?” He stared at Crowley in horror and Crowley was completely confused.

“But… that’d be good?”

“Good – why?”

“It means…it means they’re fine with it. Or just, you know. Don’t care.”

“Mr. Shadwell would care. He – oh, you should hear what he says about…about…”

“Yeah, you know what they say about home- hammer- hommphobes? That  _ they _ ’re just gay and just, just...yeah.”

“Mr. Shadwell? No way.”

“Why? Does he have a wife?”

“No.”

“Girlfriend?”

“Nooo.”

“See?” Crowley thumped the arm of the sofa. Case proven.

“I always figured that was because no woman in her right mind would  _ ever _ want to be with him.”

Crowley cracked up and Aziraphale finally smiled tentatively. “And no man in his right mind”, Crowley said. “So, guess that’s why he’s such an asshole. He’s just under-sexed.” He immediately realised his mistake when Aziraphale looked worried again. “No, no, not you, you’re lovely. Even if you’re under-sexed. Or not. Doesn’t matter. It’s all fine. You’re nice and you have a nice nose and nice hands and…” Crowley trailed off. He meant to say something about that smile but his mind was too fuzzy to come up with proper words to describe it.

“I think we’re both too drunk to be having this talk,” Aziraphale said. His whole face was flushed now.

“Yes. Probably.” He should probably go to bed seeing as it was late and he had to finally get his job done tomorrow. Ha, he would enjoy destroying Shadwell now that he knew what an asshole that man was! Being a lawyer was often stupid. Sometimes you had to defend people who you _ knew _ were guilty and sometimes you had to fight against the good guys. It did not matter who was right and who was wrong, it just mattered who paid you. But this case seemed like one of the few where he did not have to go against his convictions. 

“You’re the first one…the only one I’ve ever talked to about this,” Aziraphale said suddenly.

“Oh.” Crowley blinked to clear his fuzzy mind. “So this is your coming-out. Hey, congrats!” He toasted Aziraphale with his empty mug.

“I don’t think this counts as a coming-out.”

“Why not?”

“You barely know me and you’re gay, too, so…”

“’Course it counts! I say let’s drink to this.”

“Oh, alright.” Aziraphale grabbed the bottle of rum and refilled both their mugs. They clinked mugs and Aziraphale chuckled self-deprecatingly but he seemed a little pleased, maybe even proud, and so was Crowley.

***

Crowley had not had such a bad hangover since his twenties. How much alcohol had they had? He did not remember much after the rum and did not even recall how he had gotten to bed. It was almost noon. There were three missed calls from Lucifer on his phone and two messages asking him about his progress and telling him to call back. Crowley sighed and threw the phone away. He would deal with that later. Right now he needed to deal with his headache. Very slowly he sat up, groaned and cursed and tried to ignore the buzzing in his head. The first thing he did was get an aspirin from his suitcase, then he put on fresh clothes and dragged himself into the kitchen in the hope of very strong coffee.

Aziraphale was already up, preparing breakfast. He looked just as miserable as Crowley felt, with the dark bags under his small, tired eyes and a pale complexion. He forced a smile when Crowley entered the kitchen. “Good morning, Mr. Crowley. How are you?”

“Eurgh.” Crowley sank down on a chair and put his face into his hands. “Shitty. And there’s really no need to call me Mr. Crowley, not after getting so completely sloshed last night.”

“What should I call you then?”

“Just Crowley’s fine.”

“Right. Er, Crowley, what would you like for breakfast?”

“Coffee.” Crowley sat up when Aziraphale placed a mug of steaming coffee in front of him. It smelled heavenly, just what he needed now. Crowley mumbled a thanks and carefully sipped the hot coffee. For once he was grateful not to be in a big hotel breakfast room but in this tiny warm kitchen with the dimmed lights and the only noise the sizzling of the bacon in the pan.

“So. Um.” Aziraphale softly cleared his throat. “What are your plans for today? Hiking?”

“God, no. My plans are A drinking coffee and B going back to bed.”

Aziraphale chuckled awkwardly.

The coffee finally cleared the fog in Crowley’s mind a little. He was by no means fully awake but his brain slowly started working and it registered: Aziraphale seemed uneasy around him. Shit. What had happened? He did not remember how the night had ended and how he had gotten to bed. “Okay, did I do anything stupid last night?”

“Well, that depends on what you consider stupid.”

Shit. Crowley really hoped they had not had sex. “Why? What happened?”

“You called Oscar Wilde a ‘pretentious dick’.”

Crowley exhaled in relief. “Ah, no, not stupid. I stand by that.”

Aziraphale pursed his lips. “Well, I am of another opinion but discussing this now would only worsen my headache. Also, you tried to use toothpicks after eating roasted almonds and almost poked your eye out.”

“That’s more like stupid. Thanks for saving my eye, I guess?”

Aziraphale smiled and – yeah, even sober and with a hangover Crowley still oddly liked making him smile. “So you…you don’t remember anything from last night?” Aziraphale asked in a strained voice.

Crowley tried hard to focus. It made him nauseous. “I don’t remember much after we finished that bottle of rum.” Then he finally understood Aziraphale’s unease. “I remember your coming-out,” he said softly. “And I hope you remember that I promised I wouldn’t tell anyone. So, it’s fine.”

Another smile from Aziraphale, this a very tentative one. “Thank you. It –  _ oh no! _ ” He whirled around and yanked the sizzling pan from the stovetop. It smelt of burnt bacon. “Oh, I hope it’s still edible.”

“I’m not that hungry anyway,” Crowley assured him but nevertheless he found that the faintly burnt bacon tasted oddly nice and he ate all of it. He could not remember ever having had a more cosy breakfast, even though he still had a bad headache. But the warm and quiet kitchen felt like a heavy blanket around him. He sipped his coffee and watched Aziraphale, who was a slow eater, finish his own burnt bacon. Aziraphale, too, seemed very relaxed now. Occasionally they would exchange a few words but both of them were too tired for any meaningful conversation. And Aziraphale had stopped chattering away as the host who needed to make small talk with his guest and was now just a tired guy with a hangover. Behind the (opulently decorated) window, small snowflakes could be seen falling down, very slowly, very gently, just falling down and falling down and falling down and not a sound to be heard. Crowley’s limbs were heavy and his mind was pleasantly fuzzy, not in the drunk way but in a quiet, comfortable way. He had no idea what time it was but time did not seem to matter in Ashville on a Sunday.

Just then, his phone rang. They both jerked up from their drowsiness.

“Sorry, I have to get this,” Crowley said when he saw Lucifer’s name on the display. He left the kitchen and accepted the call once he was in his room.

“What’s wrong?” was the first thing Lucifer said.

“Wrong? Nothing’s wrong, what should be wrong?”

“Why aren’t you answering your phone?”

“Just a hangover.”

“Hangover? Darling, you’re at Ashville to work, not to party!”

Crowley rubbed his aching temples. “I  _ am _ working. Everyone was at that party, so I had to go, too. Networking, getting people to talk when they’re drunk out of their minds, you know my methods.”

“Alright. Let’s hear it, what have you got?”

Not much yet, to be honest. “Yeah, that Shadwell guy seems to be fishy.”

“Of course he is! I didn’t have to send you to Ashville to find that out! Are you seriously telling me this is all you got?”

Crowley suppressed a groan. He hated it when Lucifer talked to him like that, hated it even more now when he just wanted to go back to bed to cure his hangover. “Of course I have more, what do you take me for, stupid? I know for example that Shadwell has no employees at all, just one apprentice, who he pays badly, by the way.”

“That is good news. And have you been there?”

“Eh, not yet. But-”

“Crowley! If I don’t have anything for Maxum by the end of the year, I won’t see a cent! This is my biggest mandate ever and if you fuck this up-”

“Yes, yes, I’ll be sure not to fuck up  _ our _ biggest mandate ever.”

“You better get to it then.”

“Yeah, it was great talking to you.” Without a proper goodbye Crowley ended the call. Why was he engaged to that prick again? On days like these he wanted to call the engagement off. Or stop working for Lucifer. Or any other option to disentangle his personal and his professional life.

He turned his phone off and got into bed. No more calls today. No more work. He would continue (or rather start) his investigation tomorrow.


End file.
